


In and Out

by Mira_Mirai



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: AU, Canon Compliant, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Fedal - Freeform, M/M, Rafa and Roger are both super alpha, Rival Relationship, Rivalry, Romance, So much tension!, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, What could go wrong? Everything!, tagging is fun.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-06-21 22:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15567537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Mirai/pseuds/Mira_Mirai
Summary: There is no bigger or fiercer rivalry in tennis than that of Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal.Roger Federer is gay. But he knows he has to be in the closet to be world number one. So he is. It's the way it is.Rafa Nadal is gay and not in the closet. He is out and proud and goes around tennis courts kissing men with tongue. And... he is world number two.And Roger can't stand that. At all.Or: The one where they are rivals who hate each other for real until... all that tension explotes.(I really do suck at summaries, sorry.)





	1. Prologue: Heads or Tails

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I know I should be writing Perfect Rafa and I am! But the those chapters take me a while and I'm going on a holiday tomorrow so I'll be out and disconnected for a week so... I thought I drop this with you. It's a new series. In part inspired by taj_mahal who said that my Rafa (from my other stories) was a bit subdued and shy... Well... she's right, Rafa is a fluffy ball of tan for me, but... that got me thinking... What if Rafa was more alpha male? How would that go? And here we are. The story no one asked for where they fight for real until... (I write the rest) ;)

 

There is no bigger or fiercer rivalry in tennis than that of Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal.

Long gone were the days were people brought up McEnroe/Connors or Sampras/Agassi when talking about intense competition. Because nothing ever came close to a Fedal conflict, in or outside the court.

Because none of the other rivalries had ever had such complete opposites collide. The passionate Spaniard and the controlled Swiss. Day and night. Fire and ice. Lefty and righty. Intensity and elegance. Punch and class. All of this combined makes for great tennis...

And for great TV:

_«Well, maybe if Roger less worried about clay dirtying nice clothes he play better. Maybe, no?»_

_«I’m not really sure what happened today but I ended up with a huge migraine from enduring Rafael’s grunts on court for three straight hours. Can he be any louder?»_

_«Well, Roger is very… about… individual, no? So, he no care for Davis Cup. In Davis Cup you share trophy, I think Roger doesn’t like to share. He like nice photo of him alone with trophy.»_

_«Well, I guess Rafael will use any excuse he can to grab butts. So what if he has to play an extra tournament or two to get to grab López or Ferrer? I’m sure he finds it worth it.»_

_«I think Roger is very annoy with me because he hates a gay beat him so many times.»_

_«His sexuality is the least annoying thing about him. His loud attitude bothers me more to be honest. I don’t know if he knows tennis is supposed to be a sport for gentlemen.»_

_«Well, if he say that not very gentle, no?»_

_«I guess Rafael could be funny, if he spoke better English.»_

 

People can’t get enough of them. Each person chooses a side, and everyone commits to defending his or her champion.

Luckily, we live in the reign of Fedal, where their dominance is unchallenged.

But, some wonder: what had caused the animosity between these two players? They seem to get on with everyone except each other…

Was it because they kept fighting in finals when only one came on top?

Was it maybe because Roger resented having a rival at all?

Was it that Rafa was frustrated that for all the wins he had on Roger he was still number two?

Was it maybe that they disagreed on issues?

Was it perhaps, as Rafa fans loved to say, that Roger didn’t like that Rafa was gay?

Whatever the truth is, the world may never know, but still… they can enjoy the fruits it comes with.

 

In reality, the truth is not straightforward or simple.

This truth has two sides, like a coin.

 

**Heads:**

Roger Federer was four when he first saw Boris Becker on TV. By the end of that day he was convinced that tennis was the best thing in the world.

Roger Federer was six when he first picked up a racket. By the end of that day he decided that he didn’t want to do anything else in the world.

Roger Federer was twelve when he realized he liked looking at boys and not at girls. By the end of that day, though, he realized that had to be a secret.

Roger Federer was fifteen when he joined the Junior Circuit. By the end of that day he knew that to stay there he had to play perfect but also be perfect.

Roger Federer was seventeen when he joined the ATP Tour. By the end of that day he broke up with his boyfriend to protect his career.

Roger Federer was nineteen when he defeated Pete Sampras for the first time. By the end of that day he was sure he had announced himself to the tennis world.

Roger Federer was twenty-one when he won his first Grand Slam. By the end of that day he was positive that soon he would be world number one.

Roger Federer was twenty-two when he became world number one. By the end of that day he made a deal with Mirka to insure he would keep that ranking.

Roger Federer was twenty-three when he saw newly crowned Roland Garros champion Rafael Nadal was out of the closet. By the end of that day he decided he hated him.

Because it wasn’t fair.

Roger had played by the book. He had followed every rule and paid every toll to get where he was. Nadal couldn’t just appear out of nowhere, beat him in straight sets, then take away his first real chance at the French Open and, on top of that, French kiss his boyfriend in the stands after the final and have the whole stadium cheering for him.

He just couldn’t.

And yet, it seemed he could, and Roger couldn’t stand that.

 

**Tails:**

Rafa Nadal was four when his uncle put a racket in his hand. By the end of that day he thought tennis was pretty cool.

Rafa Nadal was eight the first time he defeated a twelve-year-old. By the end of that day he couldn’t wait to do it again because he’d never been more exhausted or proud in his life.

Rafa Nadal was twelve when he saw Roger Federer win Boys’ Wimbledon. By the end of the day he thought he too wanted to win Boys’ Wimbledon, maybe even Men’s Wimbledon and maybe even win it to Roger Federer.

Rafa Nadal was thirteen when he told his family he liked a boy. By the end of that day they all said it was okay.

Rafa Nadal was fifteen the first time another tennis player called him a faggot. By the end of that day he had defeated that guy 6-0, 6-0.

Rafa Nadal was sixteen when he joined the ATP tour. By the end of that day he realized that he wasn’t a kid anymore.

Rafa Nadal was seventeen when he first played and defeated Roger Federer, world number one. By the end of the day everyone in tennis knew his name, Rafa just wanted Roger to know it.

Rafa Nadal was nineteen when he won his first Grand Slam. By the end of that day he had made history as the first openly gay man to win a Major.

Rafa Nadal was also nineteen when he discovered Roger Federer hated him. By the end of that day he was sad.

Because how could his idol, the person who played the most elegant tennis, the man who was the embodiment of class outside the court, be a homophobic asshole? He was used to homophobes, he thrived on showing them what he was capable of, but he hadn’t expected Roger Federer would be one.

No matter, though, idol or no idol, a homophobe was a homophobe and what he deserved, and what Rafa was ready to provide, was as many defeats as possible.

He would show him what a queer could do.

He’d show him all right.

 

 

And then coin spins in the air… will it be heads or tails?


	2. Let's start at the very beginning...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, we know the set up: 
> 
> Roger is closeted. Rafa is not. They are rivals. They hate each other. But, how did they meet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I promise (almost for sure) that the next thing I'll update will be Perfect Rafa. Although, I'm upset about no-Rafa and yes-Nole in the Laver Cup so... lol. 
> 
> Anyway, sorry for the wait. 
> 
> Here comes, Chapter 1, I hope you enjoy it, even though it's a bit exposition heavy to get the boys where they need to be, in the next chapter shit gets real, I promise. ;) 
> 
> Also, disclaimer, this is fiction, duh, and any characters that appear and their opinions are in no way a reflection of their real-life counter parts.

 

Rafael Nadal scared him.

Even before they ever met on court. He didn’t know much about him, other than he was a Spanish lefty with a mean forehand. He knew he was incredibly young, incredibly talented and incredibly driven but that didn’t scare Roger. What scared him was the moment they first laid eyes on each other.

It was at Wimbledon in 2003.

Nadal was a young man of seventeen who looked like a boy of fourteen. He had an unruly fringe that covered his eyes and Nike clothes that were a couple of sizes too big. His huge Babolat racket bag almost swallowed him. The boy was walking next to Charlie Moyà, talking amicably when Roger crossed in their path. Roger saw the moment the boy noticed him, because his dark eyes got huge and his mouth opened a little. It was endearing. Roger stopped to greet Charlie and the boy stood respectfully two steps behind the other Majorcan player. And Roger thought that was endearing too. When their short exchange ended, Roger acknowledged the boy with a short nod and he saw his cheeks grow red before the boy returned the gesture. Definitely endearing. The boy had walked on, passing next to him and then it had happened. When that huge black Babolat bag had swept by him. On a side, clearly visible, was a sown flag patch. But it wasn’t the Spanish flag. It was the rainbow flag.

Roger was frozen in the spot, his neck turned watching the Spaniards disappear.

What was that boy doing? Did he realize? Was it possible that Moyà didn’t understand what the boy was doing and had failed to explain how things were? Would he be okay once more players realized what Roger had just realized?

Roger ended up spending too much time thinking about it. He even made sure to know how Nadal was getting along in the tournament and was actually impressed when the boy made it all the way to the third round in his first try at the All England Club. For what he had seen on the tv screens though, that flag patch was not a figment of his imagination and the cameramen seemed to find it at any opportunity during  his matches. That worried Roger so much that when he defeated Moyà on the fourth round he asked to talk to him when they shook hands at the net.

An hour later, freshly showered and ready for the press, he braced himself to have an intimate conversation with a player he was nothing more than cordial with.

“What you want to talk, Roger?” said Carlos. He seemed tired and a bit deflated, which was a natural response to just having lost.

“That… young player… Nadal” he started and saw how the Spaniard’s vacant look was suddenly replaced by a wary focus. Roger swallowed “I don’t know how to say this… It’s none of my business but… I saw… in his racket bag… he has a flag… it’s the… humm… the…”

Moyà raised a hand and Roger stopped talking. “Roger, you say right, is not your business. Rafa puts on bag what he wants, okay?”

Roger was taken aback. “Yeah, but… he shouldn’t… people might think he…”

Carlos Moyà wasn’t a huge dude, but he was a few inches taller than Roger. Inches that he used very well in that moment to look down on him. “Not your business, Roger. You never talk about this again, okay?”

Roger didn’t intimidate easily but something in Moyá’s face made him take a step back. “I just wanted to help.”

“You shut up, you help, okay, Roger?”

He didn’t say anything else. Neither of them did.

Roger prayed he didn’t have to encounter Nadal any time soon.

***

His prayers lasted for about nine months, but his luck ran out in Miami, in the third round, his opponent was Rafael Nadal.

The boy had done well for himself getting to number 34 in the rankings. In that time he had obviously also done other things. Like grow up. He still looked young, but now he did look seventeen as opposed to fourteen. He was way taller and more muscular than the last time he had seen him. He had also let his hair grow and now looked like a cool rebel pirate. Nike had also done some work because gone were the plain big white shirts. They had given him a unique style. So unique Roger didn’t think he’d be able to pull it off. He wore a bright red sleeveless t-shirt that showed what powerful arms he had. Arms that Roger couldn’t help but admire.

Rafael Nadal had gone and done one of those tv movie transformations where the ugly duckling goes away for the summer and comes back a total hottie. Roger didn’t need that.

He didn’t need more conflicting emotions running around in his stomach because of Rafael Nadal’s carelessness. The black Babolat bag was still present and so was the flag. Roger averted his eyes. He didn’t need this. He was world number one, what he needed was to defeat this boy fast, shake his hand at the net and then move on.

Nice and easy. He was world number one. He could do this in his sleep.  

Only, he didn’t. The boy got him, 6-3, 6-3 in sixty-nine minutes.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

He was the one who dispatched players in an hour, not the other way around. And yet… it had happened.

He got to the net in a daze and everything around him turned to slow motion. Nadal was waiting for him, putting a strand of hair behind his ear. He then leaned towards his side of the court with his arm out and a sober look on his face. He looked mature, he looked serious and, most of all, he looked honestly sad for Roger. And Roger didn’t know what to do with that.

Rafael didn’t go for a regular handshake but for a friendlier move, half high-five, half-shake, full of honesty. The boy’s skin was hot and moist, just like his eyes. “I’m sorry, Roger” he said with a heavy accented voice. And Roger knew then for sure, the boy meant it. That was class. Pure class, tennis class. And that, Roger liked. “You played very well” he responded while his left hand gave him a quick pat on the back. Rafael started walking towards the umpire and whispered, “Thank you”, he was clearly embarrassed.

Roger felt a new cascade of emotions reach him. Rafael Nadal was a nice boy, who took tennis and etiquette very seriously. He was also a tremendous fighter. He was worthy of the victory he had just achieved. And Roger could acknowledge all of those things.

He made up his mind. His head was yelling at him to not do it, to not get involved but Roger couldn’t listen, because Nadal was a good boy and deserved a fair shot at a tennis career.

He made sure to catch him alone in the locker room. The Spaniard was packing his things. Roger stood next to him and pointed at the infamous racket bag. “What is this?” he said in an amicable tone pointing at the rainbow flag.

Nadal followed his gaze and then turned to look at him, he had a small smile on his face. “It’s a… amuleto... you know? Is for good luck.”

Roger blinked “A good luck charm?” Rafael seemed confused by his words, so he just smiled politely at him. “But” Roger continued, “you do know what this flag is, right?”

Rafael got serious. “Yes, I know.”

Roger wanted to flee at that intense gaze, but he had to keep going. “Maybe you can put it somewhere else? Like inside a pocket or something? I think it would be better…”

Nadal’s eyes got impossibly dark “No.”

Roger fled after that.

***

After that embarrassing moment in Miami, Roger was determined to avoid Nadal at all costs. And he succeeded… more or less.

The boy was starting to become the talk of the town. And not only because of his tennis. As Roger had feared, others had caught Rafael’s flag and they talked about it. A lot. Luckily for Roger, most players kept their distance from him out of deference, so no one came to him with a hushed: “But, is he really… you know…?”  

He got lucky enough that even though he kept seeing Rafael Nadal around in tennis clubs, hotels and airports, he didn’t have to face him on court. Until Miami rolled around again.

And this time, they met in the finals. Nadal was laying down the gauntlet and Roger knew, in his heart, that there would be no avoiding the Spaniard from then on.

He had grown a bit more. He was now as tall as Roger. And he seemed to have found his style. The sleeveless shirt was now accompanied by capri pants with matching wristbands and a bandana. Anyone else would look ridiculous, but Rafael Nadal looked cool and… hot.

The match started badly for Roger, because he realized something. The boy had grown, yes, but he had also gotten better, much better. So if last time, inexperienced and impressionable, he had taken Roger in straight sets, what could he do now?

Take the two first sets and be two points away from the championship, that’s what the boy could do.

And then Roger remembered. He was Roger Federer. He had won his last seventeen finals, he was on a roll. His last defeat had been at the semis in the Australian Open to Marat Safin, who was a top 10 player. Roger was not losing again to someone who had a lower ranking than that. And Rafael was currently 29th in the world. He was going to win this match.

And he did.

And he hadn’t felt so alive since Wimbledon 2001, when he beat his hero, Pete Sampras.  

So, when the last ball was hit, and the roars started, Roger forgot about all the convoluted emotions Nadal brought with him and when he got to the net, he forwent the impersonal handshake and he hugged him. And he kept his hand on Rafael’s back while they got to the umpire. He said “I’m so sorry, Rafael. It was an incredible match. Thank you.” And the boy, exhausted but satisfied and yes, also a little sad, replied “Thank you, Roger. You play unbelievable.”

All the anguish and concern that usually came with the boy, had disappeared somewhere around the third set and Roger could only praise him. And he did.

And when all was said and done, and he had a new trophy and had finished with the press, his cloud of happiness burst when he bumped into Thomas Johansson in a hallway.

“I am so glad you beat the queer, Roger.”

Roger stopped walking “I beg your pardon?”

The Swedish player made a face “Nadal. I’m glad you beat him.”

Roger felt his insides splitting up. Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Fight or flight.

“It was a very tough final. I’m happy I won.” He said, and for a second, he hated himself.

Johansson nodded “You showed that faggot how it’s done. Well done!” He patted Roger on the back before going down the hallway.

Roger closed his eyes for second and he imagined himself turning around and yelling: “Well, that faggot showed you, didn’t he, Thomas? He got you in straights.” But nothing came out of his mouth. And he hated himself for another second.

When he opened his eyes, Rafael Nadal was standing in front of him, with his eyes fixed on the Swedish player. “I’m sorry if you heard that” whispered Roger.

Rafael’s eyes were clear as day. “Not important. Important is I do 6-2, 6-4 to him in quarter final. They always like to talk bad, but never do in direct. So not important.”

“Who is they?”

Rafael pursed his lips “Homófobos.”

Roger nodded, feeling anxiety creep in his body, he needed to leave, he needed to put distance, he needed to not be in an empty hallway with Rafael Nadal.

He needed to say: “Okay. See you in Monte-Carlo.”

“That’s why I said you should hide the flag. You’re asking for trouble”, is what actually came out of his mouth.

Rafael tensed all his muscles and Roger felt that tension grow like a physical force. “I not ask for anything. I be me. I play my tennis. Other things, not important.”

The tone got Roger angry. “That’s very naïve, you’re young but you’re not a kid, Rafael.”

Rafael smiled at him then, but the smile had not trace of happiness in it, it was all pure disappointment. “Wow. I never think you coward, Roger. That’s surprise.” It felt like a punch in the gut.

Rafael then softened his expression. “Congratulations again. Good luck with the clay. See you in Monte-Carlo, maybe, no?” Nadal even give his shoulder a friendly squish.

Roger felt ashamed and hated himself for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reality check:  
> *Carlos Moyà didn’t play Wimbledon in 2003, but for the sake of the story, he takes Feli’s place, who was actually Roger’s Fourth Round opponent that year.  
> *Thomas Johansson was Rafa’s quarter final opponent in Miami 2005, as the story says, Rafa defeated him 6-2, 6-4.
> 
> So... what did you think? I'm a bit unsure about it... Comments and feedback are most appreciated!


	3. An angel's smile is what you sell.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So we know how they met. But, how did they come to hate each other?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. I promised I'd update Perfect Rafa. Lol. I will though! 
> 
> Rafa will play Ferru in like about an hour and I'm sad because Ferru has announced he is retiring. The USO will be his last Slam and he'll officially retire at the Madrid Open next year. No word on the Davis Cup. Ferru is an integral part of the Armada and has been a companion of Rafa since he entered the tour. It's really sad. On an interview, Ferru said he told Rafa in Toronto and that Rafa was the only one who understood.  
> Sigh... The only thing that will make me feel better now it's if, by some miracle, Fucsovics manages to dispatch Nole. 
> 
> There's some Spanish and French (a tiny bit), translations at the end notes.  
> As always, not a native and I haven't really revised this one (sorry!), so excuse the mistakes (feel free to point them out and I'll correct them). 
> 
> I hope you like it!!

Roger had come to Paris to do two things: Win Roland Garros and thus become the youngest player in the open era to achieve a Career Grand Slam. 2005 was going to be a year people would remember.

He felt sure, he felt ready, even if his clay court season had been a bit of a roller-coaster.

He had gone to Monte-Carlo and got a draw that projected he’d meet Rafael in the semi-finals. Which was fine with him. He was really looking forward to beating the Spaniard for a second time. Roger wasn’t quick to anger, but when he got angry, he kept being angry and he was angry with Rafael Nadal.

Who the fuck was this teenager to look at him with disappointment and to say to his face that he was a coward?

The boy didn’t know anything about the real world. Raised in a tiny paradisiac island and always flocked by a bunch of adults, including his own uncle and a former world number one, who tried their hardest to keep the boy’s rainbow bubble intact, Rafael Nadal was oblivious.

Actually he was fucking blind to reality.

Okay, fine, to each their own, but that didn’t give him any right to look down on Roger and to judge him.

What should Roger have done in that hallway with Johansson? Kick him in the nuts while dancing YMCA and yell: YOU MESS WITH ONE GAY, YOU MESS WITH ALL GAYS?

No. That was not his fucking problem. Because that wasn’t his fucking choice.

If Nadal liked to play the part of gay Joan of Arc, that was his choice. It had nothing to do with Roger. And he should not expect Roger, or anybody else for the matter, to take heat because he enjoyed walking the line by parading around with a gay flag in a sport that originated in the 12th century and that was majorly played by rich elitists.

Rafael Nadal was an idiot who lived in Neverland. Fine, he could go play with the Lost Boys and then make out with Peter Pan, Roger didn’t care. What he cared about, though, was if his stupidly proud antics splashed Roger in any way. Roger would never, ever, allow that.

He had worked too hard for this.

No one, and especially not a hot-headed boy who thought he was above everyone else, would get in his way.

So Roger really was looking forward to the semi-finals. And, this time, like Johansson had said: He would show that faggot how it was done.

 

And then, one day after training, on his way to the showers, he had stumbled upon that freaking Spaniard… making out with young hot shot Richard Gasquet.

Roger was paralyzed by the scene. Because two sweaty men kissing in the locker room of a renowned tennis club was one of his darkest fantasies. The impossible ones. And yet, here was the vain of his existence rubbing it in once more.

Roger was also, despite the bile he felt boil in his stomach, enthralled at watching Rafael Nadal be gay. He’d known, of course, for two years now, but it had been almost an allegoric thing, not a physical reality... until now. Roger bit his lip to prevent a sound he felt growing in his throat.

Then Nadal gently but firmly pushed the Frenchman away.

“I’m sorry. I have boyfriend” he said.

Gasquet looked sad for a second before smiling and taking a step back. “Okay. I just wanted to try because I think you’re very hot.” His thick French accent making that last word sound like “ot”.

Rafael laughed and kicked him, jokingly “You very hot too.” He then went to the bench where all his stuff was and started rummaging through it.

“Rafa” said Richard from the opposite row of benches. “You are out?”

The Spaniard turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow. “Out of where?”

The Frenchman laughed himself silly. “Out the closet” Seeing how the other one wasn't following, he added “Armoire?”

Rafael turned his head for a second. “Ah! Armario. Si estoy fuera del amario?” Gasquet nodded visibly nervous. “Yes. I always out. You out?”

The boy made a face. “Parents, yes, some friends. But not all family. And… not in tennis.”

Rafael nodded solemnly. “You do what you think, no?”

Gasquet winked at him. “You first, and if it’s okay. I go after.”

Nadal laughed. “Is deal!” Rafael then took out a bag of toiletries and dropped his sweaty t-shirt to the floor, getting ready for a shower.

Roger swallowed more than saliva.

“Rafa” Gasquet called again. “Can I ask you favour?”

The Spaniard nodded while carelessly shedding the rest of his clothes. The Frenchman averted his eyes. Roger didn’t.

“I’m nervous”, said Richard, finally “about match with Federer tomorrow, he is too good. You win him. How? Can you help?”

Rafael smiled, and Roger hated that smile. “He is very tough opponent but, what you have to do is…”

Roger didn’t stay to hear the rest. He left the club sweaty and angry.

So now, Nadal, gay crusader, was going around educating other players on how to beat him? Like everything else he did wasn’t enough. Roger got really fucking angry at Nadal.

The next day, in the first match ever, French wonder boy debutante Richard Gasquet beat him.

And it was Rafael Nadal’s fault. Somehow it was.

He shouldn’t think like that. He really shouldn’t. But he did.

And even after cooling down and showering, he was still feeling the same way and that's how he went to the presser.

“Roger, what do you think happened today?”

“I lost a match?” He said with usual charm. The journalists laughed. “Look, I don’t know. I think Richard was on fire and I made too many unforced errors and gave him too many chances, I guess.”

“Not many players have defeated you in in the past couple of years. And Richard is the second teenager to do so. The first, of course, being Rafa Nadal.”

"Of course", Roger repeated to himself while politely nodding at the journalist. “Do think there is a pattern?”

“This is my second loss of the season and you think there’s a pattern? Me defeating Ivan five times in a row is a pattern. Me having an off day giving a chance to a newbie is an exception. Or that’s what I would say, you know? But you are the professionals…” He tried to laugh it off, but he realized he had come out harder than he intended. At the end of the room he saw Mirka making a face at him.

“Right, of course” The guy seemed terrified of having upset him and Roger was happy about that. “What I meant is that is quite surprising given your all-round dominance that you’ve had two defeats to very young inexperienced players.”

Roger put on his million-dollar smile, he got ready for the shoulder shrug and winked. “Beginner’s luck?”

Most of the people in the room laughed. But someone said, “Are you referring to Gasquet or to Nadal?”

Roger knew where he was. At a conference room in Roquebrune-Cap-Martin. But he felt somewhere else. He felt in the middle of nowhere, alone, standing at a crossroads. And he knew that the step he took, the decision he made, would determine his future. Of that he was sure.

He should breathe and take the road to the left, it was rocky and winding, but he could see light at the end of it. But he did not breathe and took the road to his right, dark as night, big and cold.

He looked at the journalists, no smile. “Both.”

 

He left for Switzerland straight away and four days later, when he was working on his backhand, his coach said out of the blue “Nadal has won Monte-Carlo.”

Of course he had. Roger’s backhand went to the net. “Are you sure about Rome?” asked Tony throwing him an easy ball, Roger send straight to the T. “Yeah. No Rome. We’ll do Hamburg.”

“Nadal will do Hamburg though.” The next backhand whistled two inches away of his coach’s face. The man was unmoved which was not surprising. “I don’t care” said Roger and he tried very hard to mean it.

A week later, Roger had a déjà vu. “Nadal won Rome.” He was working on forehands that day and that first one went way out. “He is number five now.”

Roger gritted his teeth and hit. “Good for him.”

Tony blinked. “You don’t mean that.” Roger didn’t bother answering and the Australian sighed. “On the bright side, he is not doing Hamburg. Hand injury.”

Roger hit his fastest one yet. “Must be from raising all those trophies.”

The German gods were kind to him, though. In Hamburg, in the final, he met lovely Frenchy Gasquet again. And this time, Roger won. The order was restored. He donned a big smile when he got to the net. “I’m sorry, Richard. I guess Rafael’s advice only worked one time.”

The boy looked perplexed. “Roger, Rafa don’t say…” Roger smiled big and patted him on the back inviting him to get to the umpire. “See you in Paris, Richard. Bonne chance.” This conversation was over.

 

And so the moment had arrived. Roland Garros. His unicorn. His Goliath. His most important goal for the season. Rafael had gotten himself a fourth seed entry, how that happened, Roger didn’t know, but that meant that he was not in Roger’s quadrant so, when they met, it would be late in the tournament and, once more, that was fine with Roger.

Because they would meet, of that he was certain. It was the boy’s first time at the French and yet, Roger was sure he would go far.

And he wasn’t wrong.

Before he knew it, he was in the semi-finals and he was facing Rafael. Roger himself had never gotten that far in Roland Garros and that reassured him that he was on the right track. He would do it.

The Career Grand Slam.

He would write history and when people talked about the great ones... Laver, Borg, Sampras, they would say his name too. And then every sacrifice he had made would be worth it. 

He was also sure that whoever awaited in the final would not be tougher than Rafael Nadal.

But he was ready. And excited. The taste of well-earned sweat still lingered in his lips from that Miami final.

The match started, and Roger realized this was a completely different game, because he had only ever played Nadal on hard court. And the boy was good on hard court, but he was a beast on clay. Roger braced himself. This was going to be tougher than Miami.

And it was. He was playing really well and still, Nadal always got to the ball. Time after time, without fault. Roger blinked, and he had lost the first set, 3-6.

Then came the rain and its sound soothed Roger, emptied his mind and like that, he took the second, 6-4.

In the third, things evened out, and they were playing the tennis he loved to watch. But it was like Nadal was always two seconds ahead of him. Not much more than that, but definitely enough. And Roger willed his legs to go faster, but they didn’t. He lost it, 4-6.

By the time the fourth set rolled around, Roger saw that Nadal’s pristine white capri pants were covered in clay. Even his green shirt was. He looked like a gladiator in the coliseum. He was powerful and beautiful, and even in anger, Roger could admit that. And painfully, regretfully, he could also admit something else. He had given up halfway through that set, not completely, just for a little while. But it had been enough for Rafael.

He lost the fourth.

He lost the match.

He lost his chance at his dream for 2005.

He went quickly to the net and even moved a few steps closer to the umpire to make the protocolary side by side walk as short as possible. Rafael was on the ground with his arms and legs up in the air. He looked like a boy who had just gotten an amazing birthday present. But when his eyes met Roger, he jumped to his feet and jogged to him. That was nice of him.

And then a bizarre thing happened. A shinny bubble appeared on the space surrounding them and all sound died. And Roger looked at Rafael and saw only Rafa, the person he had just shared a battle with. Roger shook his hand and put the other one between those sweaty shoulders and Rafa, as soon as the handshake was over, put that hand on Roger’s lower back. It felt strong and comforting. Roger found himself patting his stomach. And they walked, not side by side, but together. Their hands on each other’s bodies, their steps perfectly synchronized. And Roger felt peace.

Three steps later, they reached the end of the net and then the bubble burst and everything was fast and loud and then Roger was hit with all of his emotions, like a forehand straight into his chest.

Rafael Nadal had defeated him.

Rafael took his vows while Roger took his things.

He wanted to leave this court as soon as possible but an old man with a microphone was waiting for him. So he smiled, he joked. He said he was satisfied with his result.

He lied. He wasn’t.

He spent the rest of the day on autopilot, interviews, conferences, farewells. It was late at night by the time he got to the hotel.

And it was then, in the dark with the lights of Paris sneaking through the curtains that Roger cried.

And cried.

 

He woke up with a decision to make.

Stay in Paris or leave for Switzerland.

Normally that wasn’t a decision at all. You lost, you left. But, this year…

This year he had been sure we would still be in Paris on Sunday, so he had made plans. Plans that included a late dinner and an early night with the lovely and free-spirited Thierry. Thierry was an art student Roger met while walking through the Parisian streets a couple of years ago. He was charming, he was handsome and, best of all, he didn’t know anything about tennis. To him, Roger was just an extravagant Swiss who travelled a lot for work. They would meet when Roger was in the city for a bit of no-strings-attached fun.

And Roger had been looking forward to that. Not nearly as much as the Slam, but still quite a lot. He hadn’t been with anyone since Christmas and he was edging for it.

But now, what?

He really didn’t feel up to that. He really didn’t feel up to anything at all, but… to just pack and go seemed like a like a defeat on top of the one he took yesterday.

And one defeat was quite enough.

So, he would shower, he would dress impeccably, and he would head to Stade Roland-Garros and he would sit in the player’s lounge and would feast on their gourmet catering while watching the finals. He would joke with whoever was there, he would comment on the best shots and applaud when it was called for. And he would nod with approval at whoever won while secretly hoping it wasn’t Rafael Nadal.

And after all was said and done, we would take a taxi to Montmartre to have a long night of filthy sex with Thierry.

Because that was a part of the plan that he could accomplish: Finish the tournament, go celebrate. 

Everything started off perfectly.

He got there, everyone was incredibly nice to him and polite enough to not mention his loss. He sat down on a comfortable chair and watched the Men’s Doubles where The Bryans lost to the Björkman and Mirnyi pair. Roger clapped until the on-court interviewer congratulated Jonas Björkman on competing his Career Grand Slam.

Roger’s eyes fixed on the Swede on the screen who had a huge grin on his face, and soon his pale skin and blue eyes darkened, and Roger was looking at Rafael Nadal, grinning, laughing at him.

He wanted to leave but the room was now full as the screens started announcing the upcoming Men’s Singles Final. Roger couldn’t leave, not without looking like a bitter loser. So he gathered all of his pride and stayed where he was.

And after an excruciatingly long time, the match began.

Nadal and Puerta went straight into it, fighting hard. It was obvious to Roger that Rafael was a little nervous and yet, he kept his focus at all times. The boy lost the first set in the tie break. But he didn’t lose anything else.

Halfway through the second, Roger knew. Rafael would take it. He would win.

And Roger was furious.

And fascinated.

Because he had never seen anyone move like Nadal did on clay. Spain had plenty of good clay-courters, it was historically their best surface but nor Ferrero, nor Moyá, nor Costa, nor Bruguera had ever moved half as well as the fucking kid did at nineteen.

And it was fucking unfair.

And yet, Rafael’s win would be fair.

He was earning it in the fourth set. Roger didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

And then Puerta was bouncing the ball for his second serve and a championship point for Rafael. Roger was vibrating with tension and yet the camera showed a calm and collected Spaniard.

He had it.

Puerta send a forehand out. Way out.

And Rafael dropped on the clay. Just like he had done with him the day before.

He went to the net too, but his exchange with Puerta was shorter. Roger put that aside.

Then Nadal went to the stands to greet the Spanish King while everyone in Philippe-Chartier was on their feet cheering. Roger expected him to go the centre of the court then, raise his hands to the sky and soak on the admiration.

But Nadal didn’t do that.

No.

What he did was climb onto one of the linesmen’s chairs to go up the stands. The stands with royalty and dignitaries. And then, casual as you like, he started making his way up among the people to get somewhere.

Ah. To his family.

Roger had sometimes thought about doing that, but he knew his family would much rather celebrate in private.

But Nadal wasn’t like that.

And his family wasn’t either.

When he got to them, he was embraced by three men at once. Then he went to his uncle and held onto him for a long moment. And just during that instant, Roger saw that boy with ill-fitting clothes he had seen in Wimbledon two years ago. Then he hugged a blonde teenager and a blonde woman. They looked so alike. His father came last. Roger felt himself smiling despite himself. This was beautiful no matter the context.

Rafael untangled from his dad and started moving his head around, looking for something else. Someone else.

He leapt to his right, into the arms of beautiful young man with shaggy blond hair and skin as tan as Rafael’s. They held each other for a second and then…

Then Rafael kissed him.

On the mouth.

And not a quick peck. It was a kiss worthy of the final scene of a romantic film. Long, passionate, intense.

The stadium let out a collective yelp.

Then came the silence. And with it, Roger’s heart stopped.

But Rafael Nadal didn’t care and the boy he was kissing didn’t either. And, stranger of all, Nadal’s family didn’t seem to be bothered. They all had big grinss on their faces and Toni was playfully rolling his eyes.

The cheers started from one of the upper sections of the stadium, but they soon propagated through every sit.

Loud cheers, nice cheers.

For the champion kissing his love.

Roger thought he would be sick. He left the room and went into the men’s bathroom.

He locked himself in a stall.

His whole body was trembling, his breath has completely hitched. He was having a panic attack.

He stood there watching how his sweat fell unto the grey tiles for a long, long time. So long those droplets dried.

Something in Roger had dried as well.

But he didn’t know what.

 

When he finally left the bathroom, he let his feet take him. One hallway, then to the right, a flight of stairs down, then another hallway and to the right again. And more stairs, more hallways, more turns, until he was standing in front of a door made of beautiful oak.

Roger pushed inside, and he zigzagged around wooden benches and lockers until the very end of the room. And there he was.

Nicely dressed, freshly showered, with a huge silver trophy next to his bags.

“You can’t do that”, was the first thing Roger said.

Rafael had his back to him and when he turned, he blinked. He was probably surprised. “Sorry?”

Roger set his jaw, “You can’t do what you just did.”

Rafael’s impossible dark eyes turned to black fire. He crossed his arms. “What I do?”

“You know…” Roger mocked.

The boy raised an eyebrow at him “I don’t. I do many things today.” He offhandedly pointed at the Coupe des Mousquetaires and Roger was sure his own eyes were now fire as well.

“You can’t… just… go kiss… it’s not…” He tried to sound menacing and imposing. He failed.

“It’s not what?” Rafael, though, managed to sound intimidating perfectly well. He took two steps forward and Roger had to fight the urge to step back.

He breathed through his nose. “Tennis is not about that.”

Rafael laughed. He actually laughed. “I young. But that I know, Roger. Tennis is game with balls and rackets. No kissing. Well, not kissing in my tennis... Maybe kissing in your tennis?” The boy was snickering now as he moved towards him. He stood a meter short from Roger, but it felt like he was right in Roger’s face. “If your tennis has kiss. Tell me, no? Maybe we can kiss, no?”

Roger’s body took a huge step back without his permission. And right at that moment he saw something cross Rafael’s face.

It was gone the next second.

Rafael went back to his bags and turned away from Roger. “You don’t like what I do when celebrate. But if I kiss nice girl is okay?”

“It’s not about that.” His words were so unconvincing, Roger flinched.

He heard Rafael snort. “No?”

Roger took another breath. “You… if you are…”

Rafael turned to look at him once more. The fire was gone, but in its place, was the darkest of metals. “Gay, Roger, you can say. I am gay.”

That darkness made Roger focus. “I tried to tell you before. I even tried to tell Moyà. I’m sorry, okay, but can’t be gay and a tennis player, Rafael. It’s not how it works.”

The boy had the audacity to laugh at his face. Once again.

“I can Roger. I just win Roland Garros, no?”

Roger got angrier than he had ever been in his life. “You.Can’t.” He spat the words. 

Rafael held his gaze and collected his bags and his trophy. He walked until he was just about to pass Roger. “I.Can.I.Am.” Then he stopped, and very slowly raised the cup and kissed it, intimately. His eyes never left Roger’s.

“If you don’t like, Roger, que te jodan.”

The Spaniard's steps resonated on the inside of Roger’s ears long after he was gone.

It took Roger another amount of undetermined time to leave the stadium. He was almost incapacitated by all the anger he had inside. Because it wasn’t just in the pit of his stomach. It was also in his arms, along his neck, behind his knees, in the tips of his fingers. Roger had never felt something so intensely. He was dizzy with the heat he was creating.

His phone rang, startling him, and for a second, he forgot what he was experiencing. He looked at the screen. It was Thierry. Roger ignored the call. And when a minute later the phone rang again, he smashed it on the pavement.

He couldn’t even think about seeing a man now.

Fucking Rafael Nadal.

Fucking stupid conceited asshole.

And fucking stupid, Roger was, for trying to help him.

Well, that was done and over with. Nadal thought he knew better? Nadal thought that shocked cheers was all he was going to get? Nadal was a fucking idiot. And he would crush and burn as such.

And Roger would make sure he had a first row seat to the free fall. And when the boy was destroyed on the floor, crying alone, inconsolable, Roger would be there, to look down at him and say: “You should have listened to me, asshole.”

He somehow ended back into his hotel, sitting on the floor, leaning on the sofa. All the lights were off and the tv made everything glow pale blue.

“History has been made. Just a day after turning 19, Rafael Nadal, the Spanish prodigy has crowned himself Champion at Roland Garros in his first ever appearance on the tournament. If that wasn’t remarkable enough, the Spaniard is also the fifth youngest player to ever win a Grand Slam. But, that is not all, Nadal is also the first openly gay male player in the ATP Tour, which also makes him the first openly gay athlete to win a major tennis competition. 2005 will be a year to be remembered. The year of Rafael Nadal.”

Roger threw the remote at the tv.

There was no going back now.

He fucking hated Rafael Nadal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reality check:  
> In 2005, Roger who had been without a coach since 2002, hired Australian Tony Roche, to coach him for the year.  
> The matches, tournament and outcomes that appear in the chapter happened in real life. The only thing that I have changed is that here the RG Final is the day after the semis (no free day), because plot.  
> Rafa and Roger’s RG semi-final was actually on Rafa’s birthday, he turned 19 that day and I guess that victory was quite the nice present for him.  
> Jonas Björkman, a Sweedish player did complete his Career Grand Slam (in doubles) by winning Roland Garros 2005. 
> 
> Translations:  
> Armoire? = Closet?  
> Ah! Armario. Si estoy fuera del amario? = Ah. Closet. If I’m out of the closet?  
> Bonne chance: Good luck.  
> Roger, que te jodan = Roger, fuck you. 
> 
> This story is getting heavier than I thought (it's Rogi's fault). I hope you still like it, though! Comments are appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this! :)  
> Next thing I'll post, I promise will be Perfect Rafa, chapter four. 
> 
> Please, comment, I'd really like to know what you think of this one... even though this is just the prologue (sorry, I didn't have time for more). 
> 
> Hardcourt season is upon us! Let's try not to bite our nails too much!


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